The Third Person (32 page)

‘Why is he doing that?’

One of them said, ‘Because if he didn’t, there wouldn’t be a story.’

I found it too frustrating. ‘That’s a stupid answer.’

The same voice: ‘It’s the only reason anyone does anything.’

And then the guy from downstairs had disturbed me.

I didn’t want to go back to sleep, so I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, feeling sick. Whenever Amy used to wake me up in the night with one of her bad dreams, it felt like this: a kind of awful, sleepy nausea. It always passed, but never quickly. Now, as I waited to feel better, I saw that there was a screwed up ball of paper on the floor in front of me. I put down the gun and picked it up, unfolding it carefully.

Thirty names. Thirty addresses.

I put the paper down on top of the gun and held my head in my hands.

Five minutes later, I went down to the shared bathroom at the far end of the hall, with the gun tucked into my trousers. The whole room seemed strangely sterile: walls of white porcelain; garish lights overhead; and water everywhere – hanging in clean beads on the wall tiles and mixed into muddy footprints on the floor. I ran some into a sink the width and
depth of a small well and splashed my face a few times, and then leaned on the edge, inspecting myself in the mirror.

I looked normal: a little tired and rough around the edges, but still me. My standard face. Neither good nor bad looking, neither smiling nor frowning – just weathered and slightly beaten, but not as much as I’d expected. I was my normal tune, played in a minor key. Water dripped down my cheeks and I saw my eyes watching it. Looked back up, only to catch them doing the same.

Thirty names.

The choice was made easier by the fact that I didn’t actually want to kill myself tonight. It felt too soon, somehow. I had a deep, aching pain inside me whenever I thought about Amy, but at the same time I felt like if I died tonight I would have missed something. There was also the small matter of cowardice; I’d be able to do it, I thought, but it would probably be easier if I surprised myself.

So, the choice was made: I wasn’t going to kill myself here in this shithole.

Three men dead in the last forty-eight hours, all by my hand. Suddenly, that didn’t seem so bad. I figured I could give myself another week, check out the names on the list, and maybe add one or two more to that tally.

The first name on the list – number one – turned out to be an old man. I watched him for all of ten seconds, from a bus shelter on the other side of the street, and he could barely get down his front path. He was tapping a stick on the paving stones for support. As he opened his gate and turned down the street, I caught a glimpse of his body from the side: he was as bent as a letter ‘r’.

Five minutes later, when the bus came, he was still in sight. I got on it, and didn’t even look at him as we drove past.

Number two.

He was younger than number one – not by much, admittedly, but it was enough to keep him upright when he was walking, and he didn’t need a cane for support either. But there was still an awkwardness to him. I only saw him walk once – from his seat to the toilet – and he had the slow, skewed gait of an old builder: someone who’d hurt his back but still had enough muscle left to power himself around.

I caught his face as he passed: cheeks as bright as sunburn and an exploded nose the colour of fire. He was wearing old slacks, and a chequered shirt beneath a beige pullover, sleeves rolled up to knotty elbows, revealing the white hair on his arms. I turned back to the bar, downed what was left of my drink and then left.

Numbers three and four were related to number two: his sons. They were more the right age, but they were still dead ends. Both of them were blond. I saw the first one on a
construction site, wearing a cement-spattered sweater and jeans, carrying a black bucket over uneven ground. It wasn’t him. The second was in his driveway, clanking tools beneath the shell of a Camaro. He pulled himself out after a second, blinking at the sun behind me.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

I said no, and walked away.

The next six names were all a dead loss, and I was beginning to despair. And then, number eleven was
actually
dead. I called it a day, determined to start fresh the morning after.

Let’s back up just a little.

After deciding I wasn’t going to kill myself, I figured the best thing to do was get some sleep, so I jammed the chair beneath the door handle, placed the gun within easy reach and dropped off with surprising ease. I had more bad dreams, but I didn’t remember what they were. In the morning, I handed my keys back and made my way out of Downtown: back into the real world, or what passes for it. It was strange to see the sky again – blue-white and cloudless – and to hear the sound of cars and people going about their business without a threatening echo announcing it to the world. Monday morning. The air smelled fresh, clean and cold, and for a while it felt as though the heat and damp of Downtown were oozing out of my skin, like some kind of sweaty disease.

The first thing I did was phone home and check my answer-machine for messages. A mechanical voice told me there were two. I glanced at my watch, wondering how long it took to trace a call, and whether anybody would actually be bothered enough about me to do it. After a second, Williams’ voice cut in, distracting me.

‘Hello Jason. It’s Nigel here.’ He was speaking low and quick, picking out a spoken rhythm which expressed his irritation to almost poetic perfection. ‘I’m just calling to let
you know that this month’s pay has been credited to you, but we do need to see you urgently, so would you please give us a call as soon as you get this message. Thank you. Goodbye.’

I felt like giving a big cheer for the corporations: despite being heroically absent for the whole month, I had been paid. Not even a naïve child’s version of God is that forgiving. Eight hundred odd pounds, ready to withdraw whenever I wanted – assuming, of course, that my account hadn’t been frozen by the police, what with me being on the run and all. Somehow, I doubted that had happened.

Beep
.

‘Hi Jason, it’s Charlie.’

I closed my eyes, remembering how I’d run out on her in the pub. It felt like a hundred years ago. I wouldn’t have blamed her in the slightest for being incredibly angry with me, but instead she only sounded a little bit hurt, and actually mostly worried.

‘It’s Sunday night. I’m just calling because I hope you’re okay. I don’t know what happened yesterday – or what I did wrong – but I’m sorry, whatever it was. And I understand; it’s okay.’

No, you don’t understand
, I thought.
You mean well, and that’s lovely, but you can’t help me, and I’m not worth the effort
.

‘I wanted to let you know that the police called round.’ Her tone shifted slightly; I opened my eyes to the sight of cars rushing past and the implacable face of Downtown across the street. ‘They said they found someone dead in the woods, and wanted to know if we’d seen anything. I said we hadn’t, but they’ll want to speak to you anyway. I guess I’ll want to speak to you, too.’

Yeah
, I thought.
I guess you will
.

Okay: they’d found Kareem’s body, but as of this minute they had nothing to tie me to the murder, beyond the fact that
I was nearby when it took place. For now, as far as they knew, Charlie and I were a couple of friends who just happened to have been walking through the woods that day, and if they figured out who the guy was then they probably wouldn’t suspect us anyway. She’d lied for me and – as a result – it might be okay.

‘I hope you’re all right.’ She sounded concerned. ‘Please get in touch with me. You don’t have to see me if you don’twant. I mean: just tell me if you want to be left alone. But I want to know you’re all right. Okay? Give me a ring when you get this.’

Click

There was no way I was going to call her back, as bad as it made me feel. That part of my life was over and finished with, and I figured the sooner I started acknowledging it, the better. So I hung up instead, and went to find a cash machine.

By eleven o’clock on day two, I’d found number twelve, who was in hospital with a gunshot wound. I passed myself off as a relative and made my way through to his room, telling myself not to get my hopes up but failing all the same. I was expecting it to be him, but it wasn’t.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and closed the door on the way out.

Number thirteen owned a liquor store. I went in and took a bottle of generic cola from the freezer to the counter, but there was a woman behind it and not the owner. His wife, probably.

‘Anything else?’ she asked, moving the bottle past a blipping barcode reader.

Counting coins, I looked up and saw the plaque on the wall beneath the spirits. It gave the licence information, and there was a picture of the owner: a fat man with white hair in a grey shirt. He looked impeccably neat, and also vaguely pleased
with himself, as though obtaining a liquor licence was something all aspired to and few reached.

I told the woman that was all, paid her and left.

Number fourteen was bed-ridden. He had a home nurse who visited him just after I arrived. She was middle-aged and dowdy, arriving in a small car, armed with a brown bag full of pills. I didn’t even bother to check that guy out.

Number fifteen was involved in a heated business lunch with another male colleague. Suited from head to toe, they were both trying to impress a young lady who was with them. Every so often, fifteen would roar with laughter and then dab at his mouth with a napkin, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. He had curly black hair and shiny skin, and chubby hands. He held his wine glass like it was a flower he was smelling. I left after a couple of minutes.

There is no limit to what you can achieve given time. Even the most complicated and seemingly impossible task is only a matter of doing one thing after another. This wasn’t even that complicated; just time consuming.

I checked the list. I figured maybe three more and then call it a day.

There was no rush.

The hotel room in Thiene was a million miles from the standard of the one in Downtown, which made it middle of the road in general terms. I had an en-suite bathroom, roughly the size of two standing people, a wardrobe, a double bed, and a desk and chair. Most of my notes and papers were spread out on the desk. In the corner of the room, there was a television unit – also housing a handy little mini-bar underneath. Not the grandest of rooms, admittedly, but the four walls surrounding it would define the last few days of my life, with only a slight slope and one dark Monet print to differentiate them, so I figured I’d have to learn to live with it.

The first day was filled with a kind of blank, soulless searching. I’d sit down every so often – on a bus or on a bench – and draw a shaky line through a name. When I wasn’t doing that, I was scanning maps, dialling numbers and hanging up, watching people without watching them, or pacing in my Thiene hotel room wondering how I could fill time. Ideas weren’t exactly forthcoming, either – it felt like I’d struck a deal and received a free trial edition of the rest of my life. I wouldn’t kill myself yet but, in exchange for these few extra days, I was living a life where most of the main features had been disabled. I only turned on the television to check the news broadcasts, and I hardly slept. In fact, the only real impact I made on the room was to the minibar.

The news I did catch was reassuring, however. There was no mention of Walter Hughes, which I thought could only be good. He was, in his way, an important person and I was quite sure that his murder would have made it as far as a television near me. If he hadn’t been discovered yet then it meant that Dennison and his friends had been able to take what they wanted from the house – which also meant that, when the police finally did get around to calling, any traces I’d left were likely to have been buried beneath far more obvious traces of them. That was fine.

Predictably, the main news item was the internet crash. The situation had worsened slightly since the last broadcast, but now seemed to have stabilised. Millions of files remained inaccessible, but the rot was said to have stopped. Experts were puzzled, large areas of the internet remained shut down, businesses were up in arms and share prices were plummeting. But for now at least, things seemed to have settled.

I flicked off the television.

The first night in that hotel room, I paced. I scanned through the information I had a hundred times, reliving events in my head, trying to come up with some new angle or
approach that might lead me to these men. But I couldn’t think of anything, and became so frustrated and uptight that I had to drink myself to sleep in order to get any.

I dreamt about her.

It was strange, actually – not the dream, which I don’t even remember, but the way my life was moving. In the room at Combo’s Deli, I’d not been able to think about Amy clearly enough to picture her, but now it felt as though I was drawing closer. Memories of her kept surfacing: the vibrant, saturated kind of memory, and not just some flat, black and white picture of the things we’d done. When I cried, which I did a lot, I could feel an imaginary arm around me. It began to seem as though if I spoke to her she’d be able to hear me, and I knew I was getting nearer to the stage when I’d be able to imagine her sitting next to me, maybe with her hand on my knee, and it was at that point I’d be able to end this. I didn’t believe in an afterlife but, to get myself through that moment, it might be nice to. It would only last a split-second, after all, and it wasn’t like I’d have to live with myself afterwards.